Her children fill toy ships, await dawn's
laser show. A physicist, she warns of light's
deleterious penetration. The children sing,
manipulate pale hands into shadow-tigers
devouring three squirrels. They cry "feed us!"
until she distributes crescents from her purse.

Rhododendrons catch some crumbs.
The children fire crusts at a bum, morsels
hang in his sparrow-brown beard. "Thank you,
children," he laughs with them, pushes
bread into his mouth. Morning hesitates,
light thickens, he chews. His knife's

stag-handled, brass-riveted carbon-steel
serrated to saw through bones struck.
"Stop, stop" the woman scolds, folds herself
over the park bench. The man splits her suede
purse, drags lipstick stripes down his face.
The children whimper. "Hush! I'll buy you ice

cream." He flashes her money then abandons
them, strops the knife on his thighs.
The children,
full of bread, drowse until the sun
strikes everything with tardy fury.